


Dancer

by LelaMael



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Brazil, Character Study, FIFA World Cup 2014, Football | Soccer, Gameplay, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 03:54:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2009976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelaMael/pseuds/LelaMael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are not just a dancer with the ball, you're also a brilliant tactician, excellent chances donor and even more you are just you. With all your big and little quirks. Yes, even you know that half of the people see you as a spoiled brat who has no business being on the big stage. The other half worships you almost like a god. You don't know what to think about either way of seeing you.  (Insight look at Neymar before and through the game against Columbia)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancer

**Author's Note:**

> I love football since I can think. And since I saw the Brazil team for the first time I am deeply in love with them. The way they play, with all their heart and mind. They don't just play, they are dacing. Even through bad times I never lost my affection for the team. Now it was time to put my love into words. As always for a warning, I am no native speaker but had a terrific beta reader. Thank you Kathy. The story is a translation of one of my own. Originally I wrote it for a german writing contest. I don't owe anything and I don't make money with this. The point of view is a bit unusual but I love it (and write it a lot in german). The first sentence is the theme of the writing contest, if you want to know the original one in german, just let me know. I don't mean to offend anyone with this, it's just my way of seeing this incredible player and his way through the WC. I bow before his way of playing and simply being himself. And now enough talking .. enjoy.
> 
> (If someone is interested ... there is a playlist on spotify for this, just ask :) )

 

Ingredients: Neymar, fire, dancing, movement, trains of thoughts. Pressure resting on shoulders which are way too slim for it. Nerves ready to torn apart and still holding until the moment they are allowed to burst. About Playmakers, winners, losers and the feeling to be into something with all heart and mind. All that and the fact that pain sometimes is the only thing to put out a fire ... or to light it up. 

 

 

 

~

And it rises higher and higher  
Like this filthy heat above the city sky  
And I feel like I'm going mad dancing in the fire  
As if I'm only here to prove there are mountains I could move

So love is spent dancing in the fire  
Too high the cost and too quick the pain  
And all that's left for the outsider  
Is ashes from dancing in the fire  
(Dancing in the fire – Anne Haigis)

~

I'll be our light, your match, your burning sun,  
I'll be the bright and black that's making you run.  
I got my mind made up and I can't let go.  
I'm killing every second 'til it sees my soul.  
I'll be running, I'll be running,  
(Love runs out – OneRepublic)

~

Run like you're born to fly  
Live like you'll never die  
Dare what you dare to dream  
And everything in between  
(The World Is Ours – Aloe Blacc)

 

 

 

 

 

“And the sense caught fire”

That's what your mother said about the moment when you had a football at your feet for the first time. Actually she said that _you_ had caught fire but someone misunderstood her. Nevertheless the sentence makes sense in your head.

It is true.

You caught fire, all your senses, back then while you were barely three years old. You were on fire for the small, round object that your father has leaked to you. Gently and timidly, afraid to hurt his little son. You kicked the ball back deliberately. Okay. You _tried_ , that it only rolled a few feet doesn't matter anymore. Your father swears to this day that you deliberately kicked it back.

It simply was the moment you caught fire. Blazingly. Visible for everybody. You've always shown it, this joy you are playing with, about the movement and the risk and the simple fact of being alive. Especially on the stands of the FC Santos. Your father ran down there on the field, you on the stands. Anyone who saw you could see the fun you had. With or without a ball. It simply didn't matter. Stairs up and down and again. Pulling the same movements your father did down on the field.

Now, years later, people can still see it. The fire that drives you, still there after all this time. The fire that makes you something special. Something different. You want the ball, you want the game. In your own way. Yet you still are just the small, skinny boy from a poor family. No superstar, no icon and certainly not a national hero. The pressure on your shoulders is immense, enormous. You knew that from the moment Scolari gave you the number 10. Brazil’s number 10. An honour and a curse.

The newspaper and online articles say that you will carry Brazil to the finals. Sometimes, in silent hours, if you let yourself be this weak, you hope that you don't fall before that. After all, even if a team depends on more than one player, the fear that your team will fall with you is too big to put into words. Thiago put it into words beautifully. They all trust you so much that they would put their lives into your hands. Sometimes you wonder who is crazier. You with your unusual looks, the wild hair and the untwisted behaviour, or your team because of this statement.

Thinking about the answer to this question would be pointless. You'll never find one. It depends on the point of view.

You're sitting in the cabin, deep down in the catacombs under the stadium. The thick walls dull the cheers of the crowd. It's like you're wrapped in cotton wool and that's something you're incredibly grateful for at the moment. Hard to believe, but the cheering actually makes you even more nervous right now. Normally you would enjoy the excitement before a game, but there is something in your guts that tells you something is altogether wrong today.

These are the last minutes before you head off to step onto the field just a piece of turf for some people. For you it's the world. The whole big world reduced to a few blades of grass, white lines, posts and nets. You lean backwards against your locker, close your eyes, shove your headphones over your ears and turn up the music. It is so loud that you can't hear anything else. Not the buzzing murmur of your teammates, not the muffled cheer of the audience, not your own breath. You can't even hear your own heartbeat any longer. And right this moment your heart is beating so fast, pounding against your ribs that you wonder if it would break through them any moment. If you stretched out your hands right now, they would tremble as if you were on withdrawal. A particularly bad one.

You aren't. It is the pure adrenaline that makes them tremble. No matter how hard you try, you can't stop it. To be honest, you don't even want to stop it. Adrenaline is important for you. It makes you faster, more attentive, and today you have a game to win ahead of you. Not just any game. It's _the_ game. The one that matters. If your team, if _you_ fail today, you are all lost.

Against Chile, after the final whistle of the first regular 90 minutes, you have knelt at the centre line. Face hidden in your hands, you have fought for your control. For every breath and every heartbeat. With all your remaining strength you have struggled to keep calm. Not sure if you were up for the responsibility. Your muscles have burned, your heart has hurt. And then you got yourself together, leaned your head back and kept going.

As everyone expected from you.

Your nerves had torn when you were tumbling into the corridors of the catacombs, barely able to see straight. Fleeing from the crowd, the reporters and the cheers, you almost throw up right there in the corridors out of sheer relief that it's _finally_ over. Only _after_ you've shot the final penalty successfully. The fact that you didn't respond to the questions from the reporters wasn’t because of a meeting with the team medics. It was because of you and your panic. The fact that the team medic joined you when you hung retching over the toilet doesn't count as a meeting, does it? Anyway, you won't tell anyone. Never. No one. Not even your teammates. Too big is the concern that they don't trust you anymore. You don't worry about that, but your trainer does. You understood why – you still do – but sometimes you ask yourself if it was fair for your team to not know how much you have panicked. Maybe they wouldn't lean on you that much if they knew.

Later you heard that a reporter said that you had nerves of steel. If they only knew. Your nerves torn apart, gone up in flames. That this only happened after it was over doesn't matter, right?

Still.

No one can guarantee that you won't panic today against Colombia. No one can promise that you will play with the same fire that you are known for. You are afraid. Seriously afraid. Actually, you aren't someone who thinks about tomorrow a lot. You live in the moment. At the penalty spot against Chile you didn't ask yourself what would happen if you missed. You simply looked at the ball and breathed. But you never believed that the pressure could be even greater today. Never before you have been this wrong. With every game your team wins, the pressure grows. Two hundred million Brazilians expect the team not to fail, expect _you_ not to fail. The ignominy of losing in your own country isn't something you want to experience. You can hardly imagine how it will be then, how it will go on. For you, yes, but what about the rest of the country? With the people who have done everything to ensure that this tournament will be a success, who have worked, toiled till doubling over for offering the world what they expect.

No.

You won't accept anything other than a win. Not long ago you said that the word _lose_ doesn't even appear in your vocabulary. You will not learn it now. Not today. You've sworn it, promised it to your father and you align your team to it.

A warm hand settles on your shoulder and your eyes shoot open. You shove the headphones around your neck.

“It's time, Ney.”

Time to get up and face the world and your opponent. Time. The next ninety minutes will be heaven and hell at the same time. Thiago grabs your hand and pull you to your feet. Tense silence dominates you on the path through the catacombs, the soft clack of cleats on concrete all that you hear.

It's your heartbeat, your passion, your smile. Sometimes your anger, your fury and your revenge.

_And always simply you._

In the hallway under the stands, on the way to the field, you're getting calmer. Your heart beats slower and an incredible feeling of safety settles in you. In exchange the world around you gets noisier. The silence dissolves in hugs, good luck wishes and encouragement. And, of course, the noise of the fans. You breathe in the cheers of the crowd – and exhale calmness and concentration. On and on. You feel a little hand entangle with yours and you smile. The child next to you smiles back. He has a gap in his teeth and the brightest blue eyes you've ever seen. You put your other hand onto the shoulder of your front man and feel the tension that you just dismissed. Now you're calm. Because you are on the way to where you always – _really always_ – wanted to be.

You know that this won't be easy or without complications, but something tells you that it is okay. That it is going to be okay. You feel safe. Of course. You're are on the way to the place that means the world to you.

A burst of enthusiasm greets you. Composed of so many voices that it sounds like a storm. You know that there are people for whom it is too loud, and sometimes you count yourself as one of them. Until you have the ball at your feet and are simply running. You have the ability – as soon as you play – to blank out the noise and cheers and everything else that doesn't matter in that moment. Now the joy of the crowd is your air to breathe. You know you – and the team – need them today. That is what has taken you this far, has given you wings at the moment you yourself didn't believe any longer.

You've always loved the announcements of the stadium speaker. A strange sound lies in it, like a hundredfold echo. It sends chills down your spine every time.

As it does today.

The speaker announces the opposing team, then yours, the host. Your name is the last to be called. New jubilations are coming up for a few seconds. You smile. If someone had told you ten years ago that you would be here … you would have declared them completely mad. But you are here. All your great moments in your young life you have experienced on a football field.

Okay.

Almost all; the birth of your son didn't take place on a piece of grass and for that you'll be eternally grateful. He will have it better than you who have grown up between a mattress, a wardrobe and a chest. With electricity which sometimes has been turned off, simply because your family couldn't bear the costs. For you that was exciting, an adventure, but today you are grateful that you can offer your son something different. And still you are grateful for growing up that way because it made you the way you are today.

Time seems to drag on, to be infinite. You hear the singing voices distorted and muffled.

Like always. Your head is already into the game.

One last time the team, your team, comes together, surrounds you, Yes, _your_ team. You may not wear the captain's armband, but you are the playmaker. The one who drives them, challenges them. To keep up with you they have to fight. All eyes hanging on your lips as you motivate them again to give everything. Not in your own words, because you wouldn't have found the right ones. Instead you use the words of your father.

“Today is important. Run, run as if it were your last day, run, as if you were hunting your happiness. Run for your families, for your friends. Be happy and have fun in the game. And … don't hold back. Take risks.”

It's almost absurd that you are the one who says these words; after all, you're one of the youngest on the team. But you are you and you owe your father so much that it doesn’t even occur to you to choose other words than his. Everything that you are, have and will ever have and be is because of your family. Your father. Both fathers. The one on earth and the heavenly one. The last sentence before you depart and get the game started is from you. It's the one that has been with you your whole life, just like the ball.

“Let the world see your fire, your passion. Play. One for all and all for one.”

You desperately want the world to see your fire one more time. The fire that burns in your team, in you and that drives you. All of you.

Time seems to make a huge leap, jumping from slow motion to fast forward. There only is the grass under your feet, your own breathing, your heartbeat and the ball you are chasing.

Everyone can see the joy you are playing with. No matter how much pressure rests on your shoulders and how important the game is, you're still willing to use tricks, steal the ball and dance a Samba with it. You don't play, you _dance_. With the ball, with your teammates and opponents. Your opponents become obstacles that you play around with incredible ease. Your teammates become the cornerstones of your tactics and you give the ball away often, even then when nobody expect you to. Not even you. Fact is, you don't tell the ball what it has to do, it's the other way around. It has always been that way. Back in the streets when you were chasing the ball in the self-forgetful game between street vendors and pedestrians. On the beach where you played with your friends or in the house where you shot your mother's flower pots.

The ball comes from the left, falls right in front of your feet and you start to run. In the corner of your eye you see your teammates, and you try to figure out which one has the best chance of bringing the whole thing to an end. You are breathing in and out in a steady rhythm, just to not lose control.

The world is completely silent around you.

You cross the eighteen-yard line, lift your head and …

… your world turns over, abruptly the volume is so loud that you feel disoriented for a moment. The pain is as hot as fire. There is nothing else for a few seconds. Until a hand lies down on your shoulder, black shoes appear in front of you. But you don't know which way is up and down. The words are hardly understandable under the loud boos of the crowd. Thiago helps you back to your feet and you take a few steps in order to test whether anything is actually injured. It's not and you breathe with relief. You had such a little way to go, not even a few yards and the finish would have been perfect.

You block the crowd out again, concentrate on your teammates who persuaded around you and the referee. Thiago pushes you in the direction of the referee, to make sure that nothing has happened. You shake your head and focus on the ball.

A free kick from this distance - for you it should be an easy exercise. Carefully and maybe a little bit arrogantly you place the ball, waiting patiently for the shrill whistle of the referee before you go back a few steps and take a start. You don't think about how to play the ball, it's just there the moment you exhale and start running.

The ball flies exactly between two heads, makes a curved trajectory and .. wherever you have been with your thoughts .. they weren’t with the ball that misses the goal so badly that you simply turn away shaking your head. You block out the screams of the crowd again.

Concentration.

Again and again you say this word to yourself.

Just a few moments later you are again standing next to an inactive ball. This time it's a corner. Your gaze wanders over your teammates and finds Thiago. He nods at you, lifts a corner of his lips for a smile. He trusts you.

And you trust your ball.

You take a deep breath, look at the ground and then take the shot. The force with which you kick the ball is so great that one can hear it shooting through the whole stadium. You start sprinting, irritated with the volume of jubilation, the flares around you. Thiago has actually done it – however he did it. You lift your hands to heaven, in a silent thanks to your Heavenly Father before you run over to your team …

… and fall down completely inelegantly.

Okay.

That's just _you_. Always good for a funny moment. If anyone knew that you were thinking that this moment would be a wonderful clip you’d find yourself laughing at like crazy in months … anyone who knew that would declare you even more crazy than they already do.

Hands help you back on your feet again and then your are drawn into the hugs of your team, sweaty and ecstatic. Together you cheer, celebrate. And then you play. Detached and without stopping. No one can stop you.

Cheers and silence alternate. The world wins and loses volume with your game, the chances, the fouls. Torn out of the barrel, contact with the hard floor, with cleats and hands. At some point you stop counting how many times you have fallen, brought down. You're very sure of one thing … there is _no_ place on your body that doesn't hurt. What certainly comes from the fact that you yourself are not a child of innocence when it comes to getting the ball. You're taking risks. A lot of risks.

They say that you are a diva. Not only after the circus you held at the penalty spot against Chile. Even before that. They say that you are making the most out of it when other players foul you. Fact is, most teams need two people to get you under control and down on the ground. Your body is slim and petite, you sometimes have the feeling it tears you apart when they blow you down, kick between your feet and make you fall. It may take two people to get you under control, but it doesn’t require much contact because sometimes you have no choice but to fall. Just like your opponents. Sometimes they simply don't know what else to do. To stop someone like you means to fight wind and fire at the same time.

Needless to say, you see it differently. You're just Neymar. Still after all this time. If you could, you'd be the first one to stop the hype about you and your family. Too tempting is the thought of actually being able to go shopping without a crowd. Most of your competitors would not believe that. But you never cared what other people think about you.

Energetically you push that thought aside. _Concentration_. You don't know how many times you have used this word as an anchor.

You are not just a dancer with the ball, you're also a brilliant tactician, excellent chances donor and even more you are just _you_. With all your big and little quirks. Yes, even you know that half of the people see you as a spoiled brat who has no business being on the big stage. The other half worships you almost like a god. You don't know what to think about either way of seeing you.

And your family? They see you as you are and what you can be. You are, despite all the hype, all the flash, still just the small boy who loves balls, who is called Juninho, the boy who has squeezed umpteen balls into one room. And you still love the ball. You are still the kid who has rejected the contract in Europe because you were so homesick that you couldn't speak anymore. You're still that teenager, too lanky and narrow, that caught the most incredulous looks. And yet they say that you are already _a leader, a superstar._

A playmaker.

They scream your name.

Over and over again. Deafening. Seventy thousand voices united as one choir. You lift your hands, hurling, cheering them as they cheer you. Your very special dialogue with the fans on the stands.

“Neymar! Neymar! Neymar!”

Despite it being forty degrees in the shade, you have goosebumps. The stadium cheers, trembles and dances.

Just like you.

Finally you manage to let go all other thoughts and let yourself fall into the game completely. You have again caught fire, drive them. Even if you yourself can barely move even a few steps without facing at least three opponents.

There are only minutes remaining that you must survive. Just hold on a little longer. Just a few more steps to the finish line. Until the next chance to breathe between two hurricanes, which the world calls games.

The ball comes from above, you feel it hitting your thighs, you want to play the ball, totally unaware of what is coming at you.

The first thing you feel is horror, than pain, it burns, crashing you down and hurling you forward. That sentence your mother once said is in your mind. How ridiculously fitting it is. Not that a single sense caught fire, but all your senses.

You feel like you're burning, you hear yourself screaming and …

… then your world turns black, still and silent.

And together with you your team falls, Brazil falls. Not in a war on a battlefield, but on a playing ground which means the world for people like you.

 

Your world is burning.


End file.
